die schlind gähnt
by this wild abyss
Summary: "they say that the gods are on our side" (but that's bullshit and everyone knows it.) a memoir of the losing side. t for language. winner of the second phoenix awards cup of tea. winner of the best challenge response category@the phoenix awards round nine. nominated for best oneshot@the phoenix awards round nine.


_Disclaimer: Disclaimed_

_Title: die schlind gähnt_

_Summary: "they say the Gods are on our side." (but that's bullshit and everyone knows it.)_

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_Einmal war mein leben besser._

Winter was coming and the weather was cold and dreary, and one could not expect any less. The humid air dampened the spirits of the men. Or, maybe, it was the truth.

Herr found it amusing. The again, Herr found lots of things amusing. That he, a peasant, was named Herr; that Hitler was half-Jew; and that Joeseph thought Poseidon and Zeus would let the survivors live. Joeseph was always a dreamer, but the dwindling supplies seemed to make him go bat-shit crazy.

Of course, the dwindling supplies were enough to make anyone go crazy. He himself didn't mind. When he was on the streets, Herr never begrudged himself a good meal of cardboard, but he had definitely expected better when he had joined the Wehrmacht. Then again, it could always be worse.

Rumor had it that the sons of Zeus were closing in from the west, and the sons of Ares to the north. To rely on Japan would do no good— those accursed sons of Poseidon had that war tied down. Of course, with all the island-hopping they had to do, Berlin would burn before the Americans even reached the mainland. Just another thing Herr found amusing.

He also found it amusing that he was defending the very streets he had condemned only months before. He almost found himself longing for the old days, when he had dressed in rags and stolen bread. He wished he could kill that cyclops on Kurfurstendamm or feed the hellhounds on Unter den Linden.

These days, the monsters had retreated into the Underworld, beyond the reach of the demigods. He would go, too, but the cardboard was nice and, as a son of Pyriphlegethon, he wasn't exactly high-ranking in the Underworld society.

Sometimes, Herr wished his mom had slept with some god other than the infernal river of fire. Nobody even knew who his father was more often than not. If he had at least been born of Styx, he would have had some recognition. He knew a son of Styx, who the Allies thought was invincible. Unfortunately for the kid, he wasn't. It was an amusing fight. A shame it hadn't lasted.

Herr saw his relief coming. He was relieved, for lack of a better pun. Standing guard in a city practically defeated already— the citizens ghosted through town like spirits, and the church had stopped praying for victory long ago— was pretty creepy.

Rumor had it that the Wehrmacht had lost the Battle of the Bulge. Herr didn't care, but sincerely wished he was at least a son of Hecate.

* * *

Poland had fallen to the Reds, and they were closing in on Berlin fast. Herr sat in an abandoned alleyway, not quite by himself but alone. He wondered if Joeseph classified as a person anymore. Ever since his brother's death at the hands of the US, he had been a shell of his former self. He didn't wish for the fighting to be resolved anymore. Herr didn't know if he wished for anything anymore. Fuck it, Herr didn't even know if Joeseph even _thought_ at all anymore. He supposed it didn't matter. They were all dead. What difference does it make if it comes at the hand of the Ruskies or the nurse?

Maybe if the Ruskies invade, they'll actually take prisoners like Joeseph said they would. Herr doubted it. The deep seated hatred that the Nazis had for the Soviets was a mutual feeling, and it wasn't likely that the children of Hades would get along with the children of Ares well. Not that the offspring of either god ever got along with anyone.

Herr looked at Joeseph, smiling a wry little smile.

"It looks like trouble, eh?"

There was no response. The recipient hung lifeless. Herr frowned. Maybe the "meat" was driving him crazy. He heard they made it with rat piss instead of seasoning.

"Just gonna sit there? No time for your best mate anymore?"

He was met with overwhelming silence. He glared at his friend. If only the son of Apollo hadn't hung himself with the guitar string. He may have been able to pull the wax out of his ears.

* * *

Herr heard that Iwo Jima had fallen in February. He didn't care, because the Japanese held no place in his heart. It was still cold and dreary, and he figured his freezing hands were more important than a war that wouldn't do a thing to help the city.

The British and American advance in the westhad been halted, but the godsdamned Soviets just kept moving south. Moving toward Berlin. They were close now, and the city was in no state to defend against the vicious children of Ares. It was estimated that they would arrive sometime later in April. Herr's own estimations determined that Berlin would fall in days.

It was disappointing, to see the beautiful city laid to waste. Of course, Herr didn't care about the culture. He didn't even know if he did care anymore. Joeseph was still hanging unresponsive in the alley, the Allies had them surrounded, and Berlin was being shelled. There was nothing he could do, thus he didn't care.

A shell hit a church, and Herr watched, mesmerized, as bits of rock poured down. An especially large one hurtled toward him. There was nothing he could do. He didn't care. Unfortunately for him, a force knocked him out of the way.

"What the fuck were you doing?" hissed Glaser, or something like that. Herr didn't know his first name.

He stared at his savior blankly, who snorted in disgust.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Herr shrugged. He found it amusing— he could count on one finger the amount of times he had seen the son of Morpheus before. Glaser stared at him. "You're kidding m—"

His words were cut short by the sound of whistling. Glaser and his company— Herr only noticed them now— started screaming and cursing, dashing behind the nearest cover. Herr watched the bomb hit, apathetic. He found the ringing of the red flames mesmerizing, beautiful. He heard them screaming at him, but barely recognized it. He didn't even register the pain. He didn't remember passing out.

* * *

Herr woke up in an alley, and not one he'd seen before. He felt like hell. Spats of gunfire came from here, the sound of mortars came from there. A stray shell hit the house across the street. Screams issued as smoke billowed forth.

_War. This is war._

It was a startling revelation. All along, it had just been a game to him. It wasn't.

It was war, and people died.

There was movement behind him. He whirled. Glaser sat in front of a small fire, his hands held outward for warmth. Two others were with him. Herr sat down mutely. The other three barely spared him a glance.

"Are they here?" The concept seemed foreign to him. He had repeated it over and over, that they were doomed. He had envisioned many different scenarios, but he had never truly imagined it would happen. Maybe he thought that the Soviets would leave them alone. Maybe he was a silent sort of Joeseph. The others nodded grimly. Herr noticed that one was wore a Star of David. It surprised him. The other had a name tag. Herbert, it said. A grocer.

They sat in front of that fire for a little while, though it yet seemed a forever spanning the intangible infinities. It nearly caught them by surprise, when the second Soviet patrol came. Neither side expected the other, but Glaser and his crew were quick, and the patrol soon lay dead.

Herr stared at their bodies. Glaser handed him a gun. "We've gotta head."

"I don't want to fight," he said, as he though of the pool of blood trickling from a dead Rusky.

Glaser looked at him. "Fight for the Mother Country."

"That's bullshit, and you know it." Herr spat.

The son of Morpheus shrugged at him. "It's something to hold onto."

He took the gun and fell to the rear. Onward, out of the city, they pushed.

* * *

They snuck through the city, dodging patrol after patrol. Herr watched silently as the dilapidated, concrete houses broke into rubble. The world was chaos. The city was rubble. Life was hell.

War was hell.

* * *

"Damnit," swore Glaser. The Jew— Ethan, Herr learned— looked up.

"What is it?"

"Tank, up on Kurfurstendamm."

"We can't go around?"

"Rubble's as high and thick as an elephants ass."

"Do we have any Molotovs?"

"Just a sticky."

They fell into silence. It was a suicidal task. It probably wouldn't work, either. Herr stared blankly at the wall. Death was a part of war. Maybe he should just go.

Herbert beat him to the punch. "I'll go. God accepts sacrifices as the highest form of atonement." He picked up the sticky and slipped out of sight. They all stared after him.

"He'll preally make Asphodel," muttered Glaser.

"Yeah."

"Won't he see it as heaven? I mean, being Christian and all?"

Herr laughed. Amusing. "No one can imagine that place to be paradise."

The Jew mumbled a prayer to his right.

* * *

Stumbling and cursing, Glaser and Herr crashed into a small hotel— or what used to be one, anyway. Herr felt his wound. It was wet, and warm. It didn't hurt. They always tell you that it would hurt. Dying had always scared him, because he might be forced to spend an eternal purgatory with his father. Maybe, though, he was just scared of leaving everything behind. Glaser was in slightly worse shape, his left arm a mass of bloody pulp. The explosion that nearly killed them hadn't gone without final remarks. Ethan lay dead, and both survivors were wounded.

Herr laughed a bitter laugh. There had been hope, such hope, when they had begun their escape. Now it seemed that escape was notwithstanding. They lay in the room, waiting for the Soviets to come. They didn't.

* * *

Glaser laid him on the table, and Herr coughed up blood. He wished he could have died painlessly, like Ethan and Herbert. If only he'd died in his explosion. The sound of the Soviet soldiers became clearer. Glaser looked wildly at the door, and began patching him up. The pounding grew louder. Herr looked at Glaser. He nodded, and clambered out the window. Herr hoped he would be safe.

The Soviets barged in. The famous sons of Ares prowled around him. The leader, a large, walrus-like being, was red in the face, screaming at him. Herr didn't care anymore. He gripped the grenade tightly. He found it all amusing, but he didn't know why. He shook his head, gave one last laugh, and pulled the pin.

_Gute Nacht, liebe freunde._

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End file.
